Aton twisted his mouth in derision. “Let them be angry.”
“Yes, but what about tomorrow?”
“There’ll be no tomorrow!”
“But if there is. Say that there is -- just to see what happens. That anger might take shape into
something serious. After all, you know, business has taken a nosedive these last two months. Investors
don’t really believe the world is coming to an end, but just the same they’re being cagy with their money
until it’s all over. Johnny Public doesn’t believe you, either, but the new spring furniture might just as well
wait a few months -- just to make sure.
“You see the point. Just as soon as this is all over, the business interests will be after your hide.
They’ll say that if crackpots -- begging your pardon -- can upset the country’s prosperity any time they
want, simply by making some cockeyed prediction -- it’s up to the planet to prevent them. The sparks will
fly, sir.”
The director regarded the columnist sternly. “And just what were you proposing to do to help the
situation?”
“Well” -- Theremon grinned -- “I was proposing to take charge of the publicity. I can handle things
so that only the ridiculous side will show. It would be hard to stand, I admit, because I’d have to make you
all out to be a bunch of gibbering idiots, but if I can get people laughing at you, they might forget to be
angry. In return for that, all my publisher asks is an exclusive story.”
Beenay nodded and burst out, “Sir, the rest of us think he’s right. These last two months we’ve
considered everything but the million-to-one chance that there is an error somewhere in our theory or in our
calculations. We ought to take care of that, too.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the men grouped about the table, and Aton’s expression
became that of one who found his mouth full of something bitter and couldn’t get rid of it.
“You may stay if you wish, then. You will kindly refrain, however, from hampering us in our
duties in any way. You will also remember that I am in charge of all activities here, and in spite of your
opinions as expressed in your columns, I will expect full cooperation and full respect -- “
His hands were behind his back, and his wrinkled face thrust forward determinedly as he spoke.
He might have continued indefinitely but for the intrusion of a new voice.
“Hello, hello, hello!” It came in a high tenor, and the plump cheeks of the newcomer expanded in
a pleased smile. “What’s this morgue-like atmosphere about here? No one’s losing his nerve, I hope.”
Aton started in consternation and said peevishly, “Now what the devil are you doing here,
Sheerin? I thought you were going to stay behind in the Hideout.”
Sheerin laughed and dropped his stubby figure into a chair. “Hideout be blowed! The place bored
me. I wanted to be here, where things are getting hot. Don’t you suppose I have my share of curiosity? I
want to see these Stars the Cultists are forever speaking about.” He rubbed his hands and added in a soberer
tone. “It’s freezing outside. The wind’s enough to hang icicles on your nose. Beta doesn’t seem to give any
heat at all, at the distance it is.”
The white-haired director ground his teeth in sudden exasperation. “Why do you go out of your
way to do crazy things, Sheerin? What kind of good are you around here?”
“What kind of good am I around there?” Sheerin spread his palms in comical resignation. “A
psychologist isn’t worth his salt in the Hideout. They need men of action and strong, healthy women that
can breed children. Me? I’m a hundred pounds too heavy for a man of action, and I wouldn’t be a success
at breeding children. So why bother them with an extra mouth to feed? I feel better over here.”
Theremon spoke briskly. “Just what is the Hideout, sir?”
Sheerin seemed to see the columnist for the first time. He frowned and blew his ample cheeks out.
“And just who in Lagash are you, redhead?”
Aton compressed his lips and then muttered sullenly, “That’s Theremon 762, the newspaper
fellow. I suppose you’ve heard of him.”
The columnist offered his hand. “And, of course, you’re Sheerin 501 of Saro University. I’ve
heard of you.” Then he repeated, “What is this Hideout, sir?”
“Well,” said Sheerin, “we have managed to convince a few people of the validity of our prophecy
of -- er -- doom, to be spectacular about it, and those few have taken proper measures. They consist mainly
of the immediate members of the families of the Observatory staff, certain of the faculty of Saro University,
and a few outsiders. Altogether, they number about three hundred, but three quarters are women and
children.”
“I see! They’re supposed to hide where the Darkness and the -- er -- Stars can’t get at them, and
then hold out when the rest of the world goes poof.”
“If they can. It won’t be easy. With all of mankind insane, with the great cities going up in flames -
- environment will not be conducive to survival. But they have food, water, shelter, and weapons -- “
“They’ve got more,” said Aton. “They’ve got all our records, except for What we will collect
today. Those records will mean everything to the next cycle, and that’s what must survive. The rest can go
hang.”
Theremon uttered a long, low whistle and sat brooding for several minutes. The men about the
table had brought out a multi-chess board and started a six-member game. Moves were made rapidly and in
silence. All eyes bent in furious concentration on the board. Theremon watched them intently and then rose
and approached Aton, who sat apart in whispered conversation with Sheerin.
“Listen,” he said, let’s go somewhere where we won’t bother the rest of the fellows. I want to ask
some questions.”
The aged astronomer frowned sourly at him, but Sheerin chirped up, “Certainly. It will do me
good to talk. It always does. Aton was telling me about your ideas concerning world reaction to a failure of
the prediction -- and I agree with you. I read your column pretty regularly, by the way, and as a general
thing I like your views.”
“Please, Sheerin,” growled Aton.
“Eh? Oh, all right. We’ll go into the next room. It has softer chairs, anyway.”
There were softer chairs in the next room. There were also thick red curtains on the windows and a
maroon carpet on the floor. With the bricky light of Beta pouring in, the general effect was one of dried
blood.
Theremon shuddered. “Say, I’d give ten credits for a decent dose of white light for just a second. I
wish Gamma or Delta were in the sky.”
“What are your questions?” asked Aton. “Please remember that our time is limited. In a little over
an hour and a quarter we’re going upstairs, and after that there will be no time for talk.”
“Well, here it is.” Theremon leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. “You people seem so
all-fired serious about this that I’m beginning to believe you. Would you mind explaining what it’s all
about?”
Aton exploded, “Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you’ve been bombarding us with
ridicule without even finding out what we’ve been trying to say?”
The columnist grinned sheepishly. “It’s not that bad, sir. I’ve got the general idea. You say there is
going to be a world-wide Darkness in a few hours and that all mankind will go violently insane. What I
want now is the science behind it.”
“No, you don’t. No, you don’t,” broke in Sheerin. “If you ask Aton for that -- supposing him to be
in the mood to answer at all -- he’ll trot out pages of figures and volumes of graphs. You won’t make head
or tail of it. Now if you were to ask me, I could give you the layman’s standpoint.”
“All right; I ask you.”
“Then first I’d like a drink.” He rubbed his hands and looked at Aton.
“Water?” grunted Aton.
“Don’t be silly!”
“Don’t you be silly. No alcohol today. It would be too easy to get my men drunk. I can’t afford to
tempt them.”
The psychologist grumbled wordlessly. He turned to Theremon, impaled him with his sharp eyes,
and began.
“You realize, of course, that the history of civilization on Lagash displays a cyclic character -- but
I mean cyclic!”
“I know,” replied Theremon cautiously, “that that is the current archaeological theory. Has it been
accepted as a fact?”
“Just about. In this last century it’s been generally agreed upon. This cyclic character is -- or
rather, was -- one of the great mysteries. We’ve located series of civilizations, nine of them definitely, and
indications of others as well, all of which have reached heights comparable to our own, and all of which,
without exception, were destroyed by fire at the very height of their culture.
“And no one could tell why. All centers of culture were thoroughly gutted by fire, with nothing left
behind to give a hint as to the cause.”
Theremon was following closely. “Wasn’t there a Stone Age, too?”
“Probably, but as yet practically nothing is known of it, except that men of that age were little
more than rather intelligent apes. We can forget about that.”
“I see. Go on!”
There have been explanations of these recurrent catastrophes, all of a more or less fantastic nature.
Some say that there are periodic rains of fire; some that Lagash passes through a sun every so often; some
even wilder things. But there is one theory, quite different from all of these, that has been handed down
over a period of centuries.”
“I know. You mean this myth of the “Stars” that the Cultists have in their Book of Revelations.”
“Exactly,” rejoined Sheerin with satisfaction. “The Cultists said that every two thousand and fifty
years Lagash entered a huge cave, so that all the suns disappeared, and there came total darkness all over
the world! And then, they say, things called Stars appeared, which robbed men of their souls and left them
unreasoning brutes, so that they destroyed the civilization they themselves had built up. Of course they mix
all this up with a lot of religio-mystic notions, but that’s the central idea.”
There was a short pause in which Sheerin drew a long breath. “And now we come to the Theory of
Universal Gravitation.” He pronounced the phrase so that the capital letters sounded -- and at that point
Aton turned from the window, snorted loudly, and stalked out of the room.
The two stared after him, and Theremon said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing in particular,” replied Sheerin. “Two of the men were due several hours ago and haven’t
shown up yet. He’s terrifically short-handed, of course, because all but the really essential men have gone
to the Hideout.”
“You don’t think the two deserted, do you?”
“Who? Faro and Yimot? Of course not. Still, if they’re not back within the hour, things would be a
little sticky.” He got to his feet suddenly, and his eyes twinkled. “Anyway, as long as Aton is gone -- “
Tiptoeing to the nearest window, he squatted, and from the low window box beneath withdrew a
bottle of red liquid that gurgled suggestively when he shook it.
“I thought Aton didn’t know about this,” he remarked as he trotted back to the table. “Here! We’ve
only got one glass so, as the guest, you can have it. I’ll keep the bottle.”
And he filled the tiny cup with judicious care.
Theremon rose to protest, but Sheerin eyed him sternly. “Respect your elders, young man.”
The newsman seated himself with a look of anguish on his face. “Go ahead, then, you old villain.”
The psychologist’s Adam’s apple wobbled as the bottle upended, and then, with a satisfied grunt
and a smack of the lips, he began again. “But what do you know about gravitation?”
“Nothing, except that it is a very recent development, not too well established, and that the math is
so hard that only twelve men in Lagash are supposed to understand it.”
“Tcha! Nonsense! Baloney! I can give you all the essential math in a sentence. The Law of
Universal Gravitation states that there exists a cohesive force among all bodies of the universe, such that
the amount of this force between any two given bodies is proportional to the product of their masses
divided by the square of the distance between them.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough! It took four hundred years to develop it.”
“Why that long? It sounded simple enough, the way you said it.”
“Because great laws are not divined by flashes of inspiration, whatever you may think. It usually
takes the combined work of a world full of scientists over a period of centuries. After Genovi 41 discovered
that Lagash rotated about the sun Alpha rather than vice versa -- and that was four hundred years ago --
astronomers have been working. The complex motions of the six suns were recorded and analyzed and
unwoven. Theory after theory was advanced and checked and counterchecked and modified and abandoned
and revived and converted to something else. It was a devil of a job.”
Theremon nodded thoughtfully and held out his glass for more liquor. Sheerin grudgingly allowed
a few ruby drops to leave the bottle.
“It was twenty years ago,” he continued after remoistening his own throat, “that it was finally
demonstrated that the Law of Universal Gravitation accounted exactly for the orbital motions of the six
suns. It was a great triumph.”
Sheerin stood up and walked to the window, still clutching his bottle. “And now we’re getting to
the point. In the last decade, the motions of Lagash about Alpha were computed according to gravity, and if
did not account for the orbit observed; not even when all perturbations due to the other suns were included.
Either the law was invalid, or there was another, as yet unknown, factor involved.”
Theremon joined Sheerin at the window and gazed out past the wooded slopes to where the spires
of Saro City gleamed bloodily on the horizon. The newsman felt the tension of uncertainty grow within him
as he cast a short glance at Beta. It glowered redly at zenith, dwarfed and evil.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said softly.
Sheerin replied, “Astronomers stumbled about for year, each proposed theory more untenable than
the one before -- until Aton had the inspiration of calling in the Cult. The head of the Cult, Sor 5, had
access to certain data that simplified the problem considerably. Aton set to work on a new track.
“What if there were another nonluminous planetary body such as Lagash? If there were, you
know, it would shine only by reflected light, and if it were composed of bluish rock, as Lagash itself largely
is, then, in the redness of the sky, the eternal blaze of the suns would make it invisible -- drown it out
completely.”
Theremon whistled. “What a screwy idea!”
“You think that’s screwy? Listen to this: Suppose this body rotated about Lagash at such a distance
and in such an orbit and had such a mass that its attention would exactly account for the deviations of
Lagash’s orbit from theory -- do you know what would happen?”
The columnist shook his head.
“Well, sometimes this body would get in the way of a sun.” And Sheerin emptied what remained
in the bottle at a draft.
“And it does, I suppose,” said Theremon flatly.
“Yes! But only one sun lies in its plane of revolution.” He jerked a thumb at the shrunken sun
above. “Beta! And it has been shown that the eclipse will occur only when the arrangement of the suns is
such that Beta is alone in its hemisphere and at maximum distance, at which time the moon is invariably at
minimum distance. The eclipse that results, with the moon seven times the apparent diameter of Beta,
covers all of Lagash and lasts well over half a day, so that no spot on the planet escapes the effects. That
eclipse comes once every two thousand and forty-nine years.”
Theremon’s face was drawn into an expressionless mask. “And that’s my story?”
The psychologist nodded. “That’s all of it. First the eclipse -- which will start in three quarters of
an hour -- then universal Darkness and, maybe, these mysterious Stars -- then madness, and end of the
cycle.”
He brooded. “We had two months’ leeway -- we at the Observatory -- and that wasn’t enough time
to persuade Lagash of the danger. Two centuries might not have been enough. But our records are at the
Hideout, and today we photograph the eclipse. The next cycle will start off with the truth, and when the
next eclipse comes, mankind will at last be ready for it. Come to think of it, that’s part of your story too.”
A thin wind ruffled the curtains at the window as Theremon opened it and leaned out. It played
coldly with his hair as he stared at the crimson sunlight on his hand. Then he turned in sudden rebellion.
“What is there in Darkness to drive me mad?”
Sheerin smiled to himself as he spun the empty liquor bottle with abstracted motions of his hand.
“Have you ever experienced Darkness, young man?”
The newsman leaned against the wall and considered. “No. Can’t say I have. But I know what it is.
Just -- uh -- “ He made vague motions with his fingers and then brightened. “Just no light. Like in caves.” ,
“Have you ever been in a cave?”
“In a cave! Of course not!”
“I thought not. I tried last week -- just to see -- but I got out in a hurry. I went in until the mouth of
the cave was just visible as a blur of light, with black everywhere else. I never thought a person my weight
could run that fast.”
Theremon’s lip curled. “Well, if it comes to that, I guess I wouldn’t have run if I had been there.”
The psychologist studied the young man with an annoyed frown.
“My, don’t you talk big! I dare you to draw the curtain.”
Theremon looked his surprise and said, “What for? If we had four or five suns out there, we might
want to cut the light down a bit for comfort, but now we haven’t enough light as it is.”
“That’s the point. Just draw the curtain; then come here and sit down.”
“All right.” Theremon reached for the tasseled string and jerked. The red curtain slid across the
wide window, the brass rings hissing their way along the crossbar, and a dusk-red shadow clamped down
on the room.
Theremon’s footsteps sounded hollowly in the silence as he made his way to the table, and then
they stopped halfway. “I can’t see you, sir,” he whispered.
“Feel your way,” ordered Sheerin in a strained voice.
“But I can’t see you, sir.” The newsman was breathing harshly. “I can’t see anything.”
“What did you expect?” came the grim reply. “Come here and sit down!”
The footsteps sounded again, waveringly, approaching slowly. There was the sound of someone
fumbling with a chair. Theremon’s voice came thinly, “Here I am. I feel . . . ulp . . . all right.”
“You like it, do you?”
“N -- no. It’s pretty awful. The walls seem to be -- “ He paused. “They seem to be closing in on
me. I keep wanting to push them away. But I’m not going mad! In fact, the feeling isn’t as bad as it was.”
“All right. Draw the curtain back again.”
There were cautious footsteps through the dark, the rustle of Theremon’s body against the curtain
as he felt for the tassel, and then the triumphant roo-osh of the curtain slithering back. Red light flooded the
room, and with a cry of joy Theremon looked up at the sun.
Sheerin wiped the moistness off his forehead with the back of a hand and said shakily, “And that
was just a dark room.”
“It can be stood,” said Theremon lightly.
“Yes, a dark room can. But were you at the Jonglor Centennial Exposition two years ago?”
“No, it so happens I never got around to it. Six thousand miles was just a bit too much to travel,
even for the exposition.”
“Well, I was there. You remember hearing about the “Tunnel of Mystery” that broke all records in
the amusement area -- for the first month or so, anyway?”
“Yes. Wasn’t there some fuss about it?”
“Very little. It was hushed up. You see, that Tunnel of Mystery was just a mile-long tunnel -- with
no lights. You got into a little open car and jolted along through Darkness for fifteen minutes. It was very
popular -- while it lasted.”
“Popular?”
“Certainly. There’s a fascination in being frightened when it’s part of a game. A baby is born with
three instinctive fears: of loud noises, of falling, and of the absence of light. That’s why it’s considered so
funny to jump at someone and shout “Boo!” That’s why it’s such fun to ride a roller coaster. And that’s why
that Tunnel of Mystery started cleaning up. People came out of that Darkness shaking, breathless, half dead
with fear, but they kept on paying to get in.”
“Wait a while, I remember now. Some people came out dead, didn’t they? There were rumors of
that after it shut down.”
The psychologist snorted. “Bah! Two or three died. That was nothing! They paid off the families
of the dead ones and argued the Jonglor City Council into forgetting it. After all, they said, if people with
weak hearts want to go through the tunnel, it was at their own risk -- and besides, it wouldn’t happen again.
So they put a doctor in the front office and had every customer go through a physical examination before
getting into the car. That actually boosted ticket sales.”
“Well, then?”
“But you see, there was something else. People sometimes came out in perfect order, except that
they refused to go into buildings -- any buildings; including palaces, mansions, apartment houses,
tenements, cottages, huts, shacks, lean-tos, and tents.”
Theremon looked shocked. “You mean they refused to come in out of the open? Where’d they
sleep?”
“In the open.”
“They should have forced them inside.”
“Oh, they did, they did. Whereupon these people went into violent hysterics and did their best to
bat their brains out against the nearest wall. Once you got them inside, you couldn’t keep them there
without a strait jacket or a heavy dose of tranquilizer.”
“They must have been crazy.”
“Which is exactly what they were. One person out of every ten who went into that tunnel came out
that way. They called in the psychologists, and we did the only thing possible. We closed down the exhibit.”
He spread his hands.
“What was the matter with these people?” asked Theremon finally.
“Essentially the same thing that was the matter with you when you thought the walls of the room
were crushing in on you in the dark. There is a psychological term for mankind’s instinctive fear of the
absence of light. We call it “claustrophobia”, because the lack of light is always tied up with enclosed
places, so that fear of one is fear of the other. You see?”
“And those people of the tunnel?”
“Those people of the tunnel consisted of those unfortunates whose mentality did not quite possess
the resiliency to overcome the claustrophobia that overtook them in the Darkness. Fifteen minutes without
light is a long time; you only had two or three minutes, and I believe you were fairly upset.
“The people of the tunnel had what is called a “claustrophobic fixation”. Their latent fear of
Darkness and enclosed places had crystalized and become active, and, as far as we can tell, permanent.
That’s what fifteen minutes in the dark will do.”
There was a long silence, and Theremon’s forehead wrinkled slowly into a frown. “I don’t believe
it’s that bad.”
“You mean you don’t want to believe,” snapped Sheerin. “You’re afraid to believe. Look out the
window!”
Theremon did so, and the psychologist continued without pausing. “Imagine Darkness --
everywhere. No light, as far as you can see. The houses, the trees, the fields, the earth, the sky -- black! And
Stars thrown in, for all I know -- whatever they are. Can you conceive it?”
“Yes, I can,” declared Theremon truculently.
And Sheerin slammed his fist down upon the table in sudden passion. “You lie! You can’t conceive
that. Your brain wasn’t built for the conception any more than it was built for the conception of infinity or
of eternity. You can only talk about it. A fraction of the reality upsets you, and when the real thing comes,
your brain is going to be presented with the phenomenon outside its limits of comprehension. You will go
mad, completely and permanently! There is no question of it!”
He added sadly, “And another couple of millennia of painful struggle comes to nothing. Tomorrow
there won’t be a city standing unharmed in all Lagash.”
Theremon recovered part of his mental equilibrium. “That doesn’t follow. I still don’t see that I
can go loony just because there isn’t a sun in the sky -- but even if I did, and everyone else did, how does
that harm the cities? Are we going to blow them down?”
But Sheerin was angry, too. “If you were in Darkness, what would you want more than anything
else; what would it be that every instinct would call for? Light, damn you, light!”
“Well?”
“And how would you get light?”
“I don’t know,” said Theremon flatly.
“What’s the only way to get light, short of a sun?”
“How should I know?”
They were standing face to face and nose to nose.
Sheerin said, “You burn something, mister. Ever see a forest fire? Ever go camping and cook a
stew over a wood fire? Heat isn’t the only thing burning wood gives off, you know. It gives off light, and
people know that. And when it’s dark they want light, and they’re going to get it.”
“So they burn wood?”
“So they burn whatever they can get. They’ve got to have light. They’ve got to burn something,
and wood isn’t handy -- so they’ll burn whatever is nearest. They’ll have their light -- and every center of
habitation goes up in flames!”
Eyes held each other as though the whole matter were a personal affair of respective will powers,
and then Theremon broke away wordlessly. His breathing was harsh and ragged, and he scarcely noted the
sudden hubbub that came from the adjoining room behind the closed door.
Sheerin spoke, and it was with an effort that he made it sound matter-of-fact. “I think I heard
Yimot’s voice. He and Faro are probably back. Let’s go in and see what kept them.”
“Might as well!” muttered Theremon. He drew a long breath and seemed to shake himself. The
tension was broken.
The room was in an uproar, with members of the staff clustering about two young men who were
removing outer garments even as they parried the miscellany of questions being thrown at them.
Aton bustled through the crowd and faced the newcomers angrily. “Do you realize that it’s less
than half an hour before deadline? Where have you two been?”
Faro 24 seated himself and rubbed his hands. His cheeks were red with the outdoor chill. “Yimot
and I have just finished carrying through a little crazy experiment of our own. We’ve been trying to see if
we couldn’t construct an arrangement by which we could simulate the appearance of Darkness and Stars so
as to get an advance notion as to how it looked.”
There was a confused murmur from the listeners, and a sudden look of interest entered Aton’s
eyes. “There wasn’t anything said of this before. How did you go about it?”
“Well,” said Faro, “the idea came to Yimot and myself long ago, and we’ve been working it out in
our spare time. Yimot knew of a low one-story house down in the city with a domed roof -- it had once
been used as a museum, I think. Anyway, we bought it -- “
“Where did you get the money?” interrupted Aton peremptorily.
“Our bank accounts,” grunted Yimot 70. “It cost two thousand credits.” Then, defensively, “Well,
what of it? Tomorrow, two thousand credits will be two thousand pieces of paper. That’s all.”
“Sure.” agreed Faro. “We bought the place and rigged it up with black velvet from top to bottom
so as to get as perfect a Darkness as possible. Then we punched tiny holes in the ceiling and through the
roof and covered them with little metal caps, all of which could be shoved aside simultaneously at the close
of a switch. At least we didn’t do that part ourselves; we got a carpenter and an electrician and some others
-- money didn’t count. The point was that we could get the light to shine through those holes in the roof, so
that we could get a starlike effect.”
Not a breath was drawn during the pause that followed. Aton said stiffly, “You had no right to
make a private -- “
Faro seemed abashed. “I know, sir -- but frankly, Yimot and I thought the experiment was a little
dangerous. If the effect really worked, we half expected to go mad -- from what Sheerin says about all this,
we thought that would be rather likely. We wanted to take the risk ourselves. Of course if we found we
could retain sanity, it occurred to us that we might develop immunity to the real thing, and then expose the
rest of you the same way. But things didn’t work out at all -- “
“Why, what happened?”
It was Yimot who answered. “We shut ourselves in and allowed our eyes to get accustomed to the
dark. It’s an extremely creepy feeling because the total Darkness makes you feel as if the walls and ceiling
are crushing in on you. But we got over that and pulled the switch. The caps fell away and the roof glittered
all over with little dots of light -- “
“Well?”
“Well -- nothing. That was the whacky part of it. Nothing happened. It was just a roof with holes
in it, and that’s just what it looked like. We tried it over and over again -- that’s what kept us so late -- but
there just isn’t any effect at all.”
There followed a shocked silence, and all eyes turned to Sheerin, who sat motionless, mouth open.
Theremon was the first to speak. “You know what this does to this whole theory you’ve built up,
Sheerin, don’t you?” He was grinning with relief.
But Sheerin raised his hand. “Now wait a while. Just let me think this through.” And then he
snapped his fingers, and when he lifted his head there was neither surprise nor uncertainty in his eyes. “Of
course -- “
He never finished. From somewhere up above there sounded a sharp clang, and Beenay, starting to
his feet, dashed up the stairs with a ‘What the devil!”
The rest followed after.
Things happened quickly. Once up in the dome, Beenay cast one horrified glance at the shattered
photographic plates and at the man bending over them; and then hurled himself fiercely at the intruder,
getting a death grip on his throat. There was a wild threshing, and as others of the staff joined in, the
stranger was swallowed up and smothered under the weight of half a dozen angry men.
Aton came up last, breathing heavily. “Let him up!”
There was a reluctant unscrambling and the stranger, panting harshly, with his clothes torn and his
forehead bruised, was hauled to his feet. He had a short yellow beard curled elaborately in the style affected
by the Cultists.
Beenay shifted his hold to a collar grip and shook the man savagely. “All right, rat, what’s the
idea? These plates -- “
“I wasn’t after them,” retorted the Cultist coldly. “That was an accident.”
Beenay followed his glowering stare and snarled, “I see. You were after the cameras themselves.
The accident with the plates was a stroke of luck for you, then. If you had touched Snapping Bertha or any
of the others, you would have died by slow torture. As it is -- “ He drew his fist back.
Aton grabbed his sleeve. “Stop that! Let him go!”
The young technician wavered, and his arm dropped reluctantly. Aton pushed him aside and
confronted the Cultist. “You’re Latimer, aren’t you?”
The Cultist bowed stiffly and indicated the symbol upon his hip. I am Latimer 25, adjutant of the
third class to his serenity, Sor 5.”
“And” -- Aton’s white eyebrows lifted -- “you were with his serenity when he visited me last
week, weren’t you?”
Latimer bowed a second time.
“Now, then, what do you want?”
“Nothing that you would give me of your own free will.”
“Sor 5 sent you, I suppose -- or is this your own idea?”
“I won’t answer that question.”
“Will there be any further visitors?”
“I won’t answer that, either.”
Aton glanced at his timepiece and scowled. “Now, man, what is it your master wants of me? I
have fulfilled my end of the bargain.”
Latimer smiled faintly, but said nothing.
“I asked him,” continued Aton angrily, “for data only the Cult could supply, and it was given to
me. For that, thank you. In return I promised to prove the essential truth of the creed of the Cult.”
“There was no need to prove that,” came the proud retort. It stands proven by the Book of
Revelations.”
“For the handful that constitute the Cult, yes. Don’t pretend to mistake my meaning. I offered to
present scientific backing for your beliefs. And I did!”
The Cultist’s eyes narrowed bitterly. “Yes, you did -- with a fox’s subtlety, for your pretended
explanation backed our beliefs, and at the same time removed all necessity for them. You made of the
Darkness and of the Stars a natural phenomenon and removed all its real significance. That was
blasphemy.”
“If so, the fault isn’t mine. The facts exist. What can I do but state them?”
“Your “facts” are a fraud and a delusion.”
Aton stamped angrily. “How do you know?”
And the answer came with the certainty of absolute faith. “I know!”
The director purpled and Beenay whispered urgently. Aton waved him silent. “And what does Sor
5 want us to do? He still thinks. I suppose, that in trying to warn the world to take measures against the
menace of madness, we are placing innumerable souls in jeopardy. We aren’t succeeding, if that means
anything to him.”
“The attempt itself has done harm enough, and your vicious effort to gain information by means of
your devilish instruments must be stopped. We obey the will of the Stars, and I only regret that my
clumsiness prevented me from wrecking your infernal devices.”
“It wouldn’t have done you too much good,” returned Aton. “All our data, except for the direct
evidence we intend collecting right now, is already safely cached and well beyond possibility of harm.” He
smiled grimly. “But that does not affect your present status as an attempted burglar and criminal.”
He turned to the men behind him. “Someone call the police at Saro City.”
There was a cry of distaste from Sheerin. “Damn it, Aton, what’s wrong with you? There’s no time
for that. Here” -- he hustled his way forward -- “let me handle this.”
Aton stared down his nose at the psychologist. “This is not the time for your monkeyshines,
Sheerin. Will you please let me handle this my own way? Right now you are a complete outsider here, and
don’t forget it.”
Sheerin’s mouth twisted eloquently. “Now why should we go to the impossible trouble of calling
the police -- with Beta’s eclipse a matter of minutes from now -- when this young man here is perfectly
willing to pledge his word of honor to remain and cause no trouble whatsoever?”
The Cultist answered promptly, “I will do no such thing. You’re free to do what you want, but it’s
only fair to warn you that just as soon as I get my chance I’m going to finish what I came out here to do. If
it’s my word of honor you’re relying on, you’d better call the police.”
Sheerin smiled in a friendly fashion. “You’re a determined cuss, aren’t you? Well, I’ll explain
something. Do you see that young man at the window? He’s a strong, husky fellow, quite handy with his
fists, and he’s an outsider besides. Once the eclipse starts there will be nothing for him to do except keep an
eye on you. Besides him, there will be myself -- a little too stout for active fisticuffs, but still able to help.”
“Well, what of it?” demanded Latimer frozenly.
“Listen and I’ll tell you,” was the reply. “Just as soon as the eclipse starts, we’re going to take you,
Theremon and I, and deposit you in a little closet with one door, to which is attached one giant lock and no
windows. You will remain there for the duration.”
“And afterward,” breathed Latimer fiercely, “there’ll be no one to let me out. I know as well as
you do what the coming of the Stars means -- I know it far better than you. With all your minds gone, you
are not likely to free me. Suffocation or slow starvation, is it? About what I might have expected from a
group of scientists. But I don’t give my word. It’s a matter of principle, and I won’t discuss it further.”
Aton seemed perturbed. His faded eyes were troubled.
“Really, Sheerin, locking him -- “
“Please!” Sheerin motioned him impatiently to silence. “I don’t think for a moment things will go
that far. Latimer has just tried a clever little bluff, but I’m not a psychologist just because I like the sound of
the word.” He grinned at the Cultist. “Come now, you don’t really think I’m trying anything as crude as
slow starvation. My dear Latimer, if I lock you in the closet, you are not going to see the Darkness, and you
are not going to see the Stars. It does not take much knowledge of the fundamental creed of the Cult to
realize that for you to be hidden from the Stars when they appear means the loss of your immortal soul.
Now, I believe you to be an honorable man. I’ll accept your word of honor to make no further effort to
disrupt proceedings, if you’ll offer it.”
A vein throbbed in Latimer’s temple, and he seemed to shrink within himself as he said thickly,
“You have it!” And then he added with swift fury. “But it is my consolation that you will all be damned for
your deeds of today.” He turned on his heel and stalked to the high three-legged stool by the door.
Sheerin nodded to the columnist. “Take a seat next to him, Theremon -- just as a formality. Hey,
Theremon!”
But the newspaperman didn’t move. He had gone pale to the lips. “Look at that!” The finger he
pointed toward the sky shook, and his voice was dry and cracked.
There was one simultaneous gasp as every eye followed the pointing finger and, for one breathless
moment, stared frozenly.
Beta was chipped on one side!
The tiny bit of encroaching blackness was perhaps the width of a fingernail, but to the staring
watchers it magnified itself into the crack of doom.
Only for a moment they watched, and after that there was a shrieking confusion that was even
shorter of duration and which gave way to an orderly scurry of activity -- each man at his prescribed job. At
the crucial moment there was no time for emotion. The men were merely scientists with work to do. Even
Aton had melted away.
Sheerin said prosaically. “First contact must have been made fifteen minutes ago. A little early, but
pretty good considering the uncertainties involved in the calculation.” He looked about him and then
tiptoed to Theremon, who still remained staring out the window, and dragged him away gently.
“Aton is furious,” he whispered, “so stay away. He missed first contact on account of this fuss
with Latimer, and if you get in his way he’ll have you thrown out the window.”
Theremon nodded shortly and sat down. Sheerin stared in surprise at him.
“The devil, man,” he exclaimed, “you’re shaking.”
“Eh?” Theremon licked dry lips and then tried to smile. “I don’t feel very well, and that’s a fact.”
The psychologist’s eyes hardened. “You’re not losing your nerve?”
“No!” cried Theremon in a flash of indignation. “Give me a chance, will you? I haven’t really
believed this rigmarole -- not way down beneath, anyway -- till just this minute. Give me a chance to get
used to the idea. You’ve been preparing yourself for two months or more.”
“You’re right, at that,” replied Sheerin thoughtfully. “Listen! Have you got a family -- parents,
wife, children?”
Theremon shook his head. “You mean the Hideout, I suppose. No, you don’t have to worry about
that. I have a sister, but she’s two thousand miles away. I don’t even know her exact address.”
“Well, then, what about yourself? You’ve got time to get there, and they’re one short anyway,
since I left. After all, you’re not needed here, and you’d make a darned fine addition -- “
Theremon looked at the other wearily. “You think I’m scared stiff, don’t you? Well, get this,
mister. I’m a newspaperman and I’ve been assigned to cover a story. I intend covering it.”
There was a faint smile on the psychologist’s face. “I see. Professional honor, is that it?”
“You might call it that. But, man. I’d give my right arm for another bottle of that sockeroo juice
even half the size of the one you bogged. If ever a fellow needed a drink, I do.”
He broke off. Sheerin was nudging him violently. “Do you hear that? Listen!”
Theremon followed the motion of the other’s chin and stared at the Cultist, who, oblivious to all
about him, faced the window, a look of wild elation on his face, droning to himself the while in singsong
fashion.
“What’s he saying?” whispered the columnist.
“He’s quoting Book of Revelations, fifth chapter,” replied Sheerin. Then, urgently, “Keep quiet and
listen, I tell you.”
The Cultist’s voice had risen in a sudden increase of fervor: ‘ “And it came to pass that in those
days the Sun, Beta, held lone vigil in the sky for ever longer periods asthe revolutions passed; until such
time as for full half a revolution, it alone, shrunken and cold, shone down upon Lagash.
“ ‘And men did assemble in the public squares and in the highways, there to debate and to marvel
at the sight, for a strange depression had seized them. Their minds were troubled and their speech confused,
for the souls of men awaited the coming of the Stars.
“ ‘And in the city of Trigon, at high noon, Vendret 2 came forth and said unto the men of Trigon,
“Lo, ye sinners! Though ye scorn the ways of righteousness, yet will the time of reckoning come. Even
now the Cave approaches to swallow Lagash; yea, and all it contains.”
“ ‘And even as he spoke the lip of the Cave of Darkness passed the edge of Beta so that to all
Lagash it was hidden from sight. Loud were the cries of men as it vanished, and great the fear of soul that
fell upon them.
“ ‘It came to pass that the Darkness of the Cave fell upon Lagash, and there was no light on all the
surface of Lagash. Men were even as blinded, nor could one man see his neighbor, though he felt his breath
upon his face.
“ ‘And in this blackness there appeared the Stars, in countless numbers, and to the strains of music
of such beauty that the very leaves of the trees cried out in wonder.
“ ‘And in that moment the souls of men departed from them, and their abandoned bodies became
even as beasts; yea, even as brutes of the wild; so that through the blackened streets of the cities of Lagash
they prowled with wild cries.
“ ‘From the Stars there then reached down the Heavenly Flame, and where it touched, the cities of
Lagash flamed to utter destruction, so that of man and of the works of man nought remained.
“ ‘Even then -- ‘ ‘
There was a subtle change in Latimer’s tone. His eyes had not shifted, but somehow he had
become aware of the absorbed attention of the other two. Easily, without pausing for breath, the timbre of
his voice shifted and the syllables became more liquid.
Theremon, caught by surprise, stared. The words seemed on the border of familiarity. There was
an elusive shift in the accent, a tiny change in the vowel stress; nothing more -- yet Latimer had become
thoroughly unintelligible.
Sheerin smiled slyly. “He shifted to some old-cycle tongue, probably their traditional second
cycle. That was the language in which the Book of Revelations was originally written, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter; I’ve heard enough.” Theremon shoved his chair back and brushed his hair back
with hands that no longer shook. “I feel much better now.”
“You do?” Sheerin seemed mildly surprised.
“I’ll say I do. I had a bad case of jitters just a while back. Listening to you and your gravitation
and seeing that eclipse start almost finished me. But this” -- he jerked a contemptuous thumb at the yellow-
bearded Cultist -- “this is the sort of thing my nurse used to tell me. I’ve been laughing at that sort of thing
all my life. I’m not going to let it scare me now.”
He drew a deep breath and said with a hectic gaiety, “But if I expect to keep on the good side of
myself. I’m going to turn my chair away from the window.”
Sheerin said, “Yes, but you’d better talk lower. Aton just lifted his head out of that box he’s got it
stuck into and gave you a look that should have killed you.”
Theremon made a mouth. “I forgot about the old fellow.” With elaborate care he turned the chair
from the window, cast one distasteful look over his shoulder, and said, “It has occurred to me that there
must be considerable immunity against this Star madness.”
The psychologist did not answer immediately. Beta was past its zenith now, and the square of
bloody sunlight that outlined the window upon the floor had lifted into Sheerin’s lap. He stared at its dusky
color thoughtfully and then bent and squinted into the sun itself.
The chip in its side had grown to a black encroachment that covered a third of Beta. He shuddered,
and when he straightened once more his florid cheeks did not contain quite as much color as they had had
previously.
With a smile that was almost apologetic, he reversed his chair also. “There are probably two
million people in Saro City that are all trying to join the Cult at once in one gigantic revival.” Then,
ironically. “The Cult is in for an hour of unexampled prosperity. I trust they’ll make the most of it. Now,
what was it you said?”
“Just this. How did the Cultists manage to keep the Book of Revelations going from cycle to cycle,
and how on Lagash did it get written in the first place? There must have been some sort of immunity, for if
everyone had gone mad, who would be left to write the book?”
Sheerin stared at his questioner ruefully. “Well, now, young man, there isn’t any eyewitness
answer to that, but we’ve got a few damned good notions as to what happened. You see. there are three
kinds of people who might remain relatively unaffected. First, the very few who don’t see the Stars at all:
the seriously retarded or those who drink themselves into a stupor at the beginning of the eclipse and
remain so to the end. We leave them out -- because they aren’t really witnesses.
“Then there are children below six, to whom the world as a whole is too new and strange for them
to be too frightened at Stars and Darkness. They would be just another item in an already surprising world.
You see that, don’t you?”
The other nodded doubtfully. “I suppose so.”
“Lastly, there are those whose minds are too coarsely grained to be entirely toppled. The very
insensitive would be scarcely affected -- oh, such people as some of our older, work-broken peasants. Well,
the children would have fugitive memories, and that, combined with the confused, incoherent babblings of
the half-mad morons, formed the basis for the Book of Revelations.
“Naturally, the book was based, in the first place, on the testimony of those least qualified to serve
as historians; that is, children and morons; and was probably edited and re-edited through the cycles.”
“Do you suppose,” broke in Theremon, “that they carried the book through the cycles the way
we’re planning on handing on the secret of gravitation?”
Sheerin shrugged. “Perhaps, but their exact method is unimportant. They do it, somehow. The
point I was getting at was that the book can’t help but be a mass of distortion, even if it is based on fact. For
instance, do you remember the experiment with the holes in the roof that Faro and Yimot tried -- the one
that didn’t work?”
“Yes.”
“You know why it didn’t w -- “ He stopped and rose in alarm, for Aton was approaching, his face a
twisted mask of consternation. “What’s happened?”
Aton drew him aside and Sheerin could feel the fingers on his elbow twitching.
“Not so loud!” Aton’s voice was low and tortured. “I’ve just gotten word from the Hideout on the
private line.”
Sheerin broke in anxiously. “They are in trouble?”
“Not they.” Aton stressed the pronoun significantly. “They sealed themselves off just a while ago,
and they’re going to stay buried till day after tomorrow. They’re safe. But the city. Sheerin -- it’s a
shambles. You have no idea -- “ He was having difficulty in speaking.
“Well?” snapped Sheerin impatiently. “What of it? It will get worse. What are you shaking about?”
Then, suspiciously, “How do you feel?”
Aton’s eyes sparked angrily at the insinuation, and then faded to anxiety once more. “You don’t
understand. The Cultists are active. They’re rousing the people to storm the Observatory -- promising them
immediate entrance into grace, promising them salvation, promising them anything. What are we to do,
Sheerin?”
Sheerin’s head bent, and he stared in long abstraction at his toes. He tapped his chin with one
knuckle, then looked up and said crisply, “Do? What is there to do? Nothing at all. Do the men know of
this?”
“No, of course not!”
“Good! Keep it that way. How long till totality?”
“Not quite an hour.”
“There’s nothing to do but gamble. It will take time to organize any really formidable mob, and it
will take more time to get them out here. We’re a good five miles from the city -- “
He glared out the window, down the slopes to where the farmed patches gave way to clumps of
white houses in the suburbs; down to where the metropolis itself was a blur on the horizon -- a mist in the
waning blaze of Beta.
He repeated without turning. “It will take time. Keep on working and pray that totality comes
first.”
Beta was cut in half, the line of division pushing a slight concavity into the still-bright portion of
the Sun. It was like a gigantic eyelid shutting slantwise over the light of a world.
The faint clatter of the room in which he stood faded into oblivion, and he sensed only the thick
silence of the fields outside. The very insects seemed frightened mute. And things were dim.
He jumped at the voice in his ear. Theremon said. “Is something wrong?”
“Eh? Er -- no. Get back to the chair. We’re in the way.” They slipped back to their comer, but the
psychologist did not speak for a time. He lifted a finger and loosened his collar. He twisted his neck back
and forth but found no relief. He looked up suddenly.
“Are you having any difficulty in breathing?”
The newspaperman opened his eyes wide and drew two or three long breaths. “No. Why?”
“I looked out the window too long, I suppose. The dimness got me. Difficulty in breathing is one
of the first symptoms of a claustrophobic attack. “
Theremon drew another long breath. “Well, it hasn’t got me yet. Say, here’s another of the
fellows.”
Beenay had interposed his bulk between the light and the pair in the corner, and Sheerin squinted
up at him anxiously. “Hello, Beenay.”
The astronomer shifted his weight to the other foot and smiled feebly. “You won’t mind if I sit
down awhile and join in the talk? My cameras are set, and there’s nothing to do till totality.” He paused and
eyed the Cultist, who fifteen minutes earlier had drawn a small, skin-bound book from his sleeve and had
been poring intently over it ever since.
“That rat hasn’t been making trouble, has he?”
Sheerin shook his head. His shoulders were thrown back and he frowned his concentration as he
forced himself to breathe regularly. He said, “Have you had any trouble breathing, Beenay?”
Beenay sniffed the air in his turn. “It doesn’t seem stuffy to me.”
“A touch of claustrophobia,” explained Sheerin apologetically.
“Ohhh! It worked itself differently with me. I get the impression that my eyes are going back on
me. Things seem to blur and -- well, nothing is clear. And it’s cold, too.”
“Oh, it’s cold, all right. That’s no illusion.” Theremon grimaced. “My toes feel as if I’ve been
shipping them cross-country in a refrigerating car.”
“What we need,” put in Sheerin, “is to keep our minds busy with extraneous affairs. I was telling
you a while ago, Theremon, why Faro’s experiments with the holes in the roof came to nothing.”
“You were just beginning,” replied Theremon. He encircled a knee with both arms and nuzzled his
chin against it.
“Well, as I started to say, they were misled by taking the Book of Revelations literally. There
probably wasn’t any sense in attaching any physical significance to the Stars. It might be, you know, that in
the presence of total Darkness, the mind finds it absolutely necessary to create light. This illusion of light
might be all the Stars there really are.”
“In other words,” interposed Theremon, “you mean the Stars arc the results of the madness and not
one of the causes. Then, what good will Beenay’s photographs be?”
“To prove that it is an illusion, maybe; or to prove the opposite; for all I know. Then again -- “
But Beenay had drawn his chair closer, and there was an expression of sudden enthusiasm on his
face. “Say, I’m glad you two got onto this subject.” His eyes narrowed and he lifted one finger. “I’ve been
thinking about these Stars and I’ve got a really cute notion. Of course it’s strictly ocean foam, and I’m not
trying to advance it seriously, but I think it’s interesting. Do you want to hear it?”
He seemed half reluctant, but Sheerin leaned back and said, “Go ahead! I’m listening.”
“Well, then, supposing there were other suns in the universe.” He broke off a little bashfully. “I
mean suns that are so far away that they’re too dim to see. It sounds as if I’ve been reading some of that
fantastic fiction, I suppose.”
“Not necessarily. Still, isn’t that possibility eliminated by the fact that, according to the Law of
Gravitation, they would make themselves evident by their attractive forces?”
“Not if they were far enough off,” rejoined Beenay, “really far off -- maybe as much as four light
years, or even more. We’d never be able to detect perturbations then, because they’d be too small. Say that
there were a lot of suns that far off; a dozen or two, maybe.”
Theremon whistled melodiously. “What an idea for a good Sunday supplement article. Two dozen
suns in a universe eight light years across. Wow! That would shrink our world into insignificance. The
readers would eat it up.”
“Only an idea,” said Beenay with a grin, “but you see the point. During an eclipse, these dozen
suns would become visible because there’d be no real sunlight to drown them out. Since they’re so far off,
they’d appear small, like so many little marbles. Of course the Cultists talk of millions of Stars, but that’s
probably exaggeration. There just isn’t any place in the universe you could put a million suns -- unless they
touch one another.”
Sheerin had listened with gradually increasing interest. “You’ve hit something there, Beenay. And
exaggeration is just exactly what would happen. Our minds, as you probably know, can’t grasp directly any
number higher than five; above that there is only the concept of “many”. A dozen would become a million
just like that. A damn good idea!”
“And I’ve got another cute little notion,” Beenay said. “Have you ever thought what a simple
problem gravitation would be if only you had a sufficiently simple system? Supposing you had a universe
in which there was a planet with only one sun. The planet would travel in a perfect ellipse and the exact
nature of the gravitational force would be so evident it could be accepted as an axiom. Astronomers on such
a world would start off with gravity probably before they even invented the telescope. Naked-eye
observation would be enough.”
“But would such a system be dynamically stable?” questioned Sheerin doubtfully.
“Sure! They call it the “one-and-one” case. It’s been worked out mathematically, but it’s the
philosophical implications that interest me.”
“It’s nice to think about,” admitted Sheerin, “as a pretty abstraction -- like a perfect gas, or
absolute zero.”
“Of course,” continued Beenay, “there’s the catch that life would be impossible on such a planet. It
wouldn’t get enough heat and light, and if it rotated there would be total Darkness half of each day. You
couldn’t expect life -- which is fundamentally dependent upon light -- to develop under those conditions.
Besides -- “
Sheerin’s chair went over backward as he sprang to his feet in a rude interruption. “Aton’s brought
out the lights.”
Beenay said, “Huh,” turned to stare, and then grinned halfway around his head in open relief.
There were half a dozen foot-long, inch-thick rods cradled in Aton’s arms. He glared over them at
the assembled staff members.
“Get back to work, all of you. Sheerin, come here and help me!”
Sheerin trotted to the older man’s side and, one by one, in utter silence, the two adjusted the rods
in makeshift metal holders suspended from the walls.
With the air of one carrying through the most sacred item of a religious ritual, Sheerin scraped a
large, clumsy match into spluttering life and passed it to Aton, who carried the flame to the upper end of
one of the rods.
It hesitated there awhile, playing futilely about the tip, until a sudden, crackling flare cast Aton’s
lined face into yellow highlights. He withdrew the match and a spontaneous cheer rattled the window.
The rod was topped by six inches of wavering flame! Methodically, the other rods were lighted,
until six independent fires turned the rear of the room yellow.
The light was dim, dimmer even than the tenuous sunlight. The flames reeled crazily, giving birth
to drunken, swaying shadows. The torches smoked devilishly and smelled like a bad day in the kitchen. But
they emitted yellow light.
There was something about yellow light, after four hours of somber, dimming Beta. Even Latimer
had lifted his eyes from his book and stared in wonder.
Sheerin warmed his hands at the nearest, regardless of the soot that gathered upon them in a fine,
gray powder, and muttered ecstatically to himself. “Beautiful! Beautiful! I never realized before what a
wonderful color yellow is.”
But Theremon regarded the torches suspiciously. He wrinkled his nose at the rancid odor and said,
“What are those things?”
“Wood,” said Sheerin shortly.
“Oh, no, they’re not. They aren’t burning. The top inch is charred and the flame just keeps
shooting up out of nothing.”
“That’s the beauty of it. This is a really efficient artificial-light mechanism. We made a few
hundred of them, but most went to the Hideout, of course. You see” -- he turned and wiped his blackened
hands upon his handkerchief -- “you take the pithy core of coarse water reeds, dry them thoroughly, and
soak them in animal grease. Then you set fire to it and the grease burns, little by little. These torches will
burn for almost half an hour without stopping. Ingenious, isn’t it? It was developed by one of our own
young men at Saro University.”
After the momentary sensation, the dome had quieted. Latimer had carried his chair directly
beneath a torch and continued reading, lips moving in the monotonous recital of invocations to the Stars.
Beenay had drifted away to his cameras once more, and Theremon seized the opportunity to add to his
notes on the article he was going to write for the Saro City Chronicle the next day -- a procedure he had
been following for the last two hours in a perfectly methodical, perfectly conscientious and, as he was well
aware, perfectly meaningless fashion. But, as the gleam of amusement in Sheerin’s eyes indicated, careful
note-taking occupied his mind with something other than the fact that the sky was gradually turning a
horrible deep purple-red, as if it were one gigantic, freshly peeled beet; and so it fulfilled its purpose.
The air grew, somehow, denser. Dusk, like a palpable entity, entered the room, and the dancing
circle of yellow light about the torches etched itself into ever-sharper distinction against the gathering
grayness beyond. There was the odor of smoke and the presence of little chuckling sounds that the torches
made as they burned; the soft pad of one of the men circling the table at which he worked, on hesitant
tiptoes; the occasional indrawn breath of someone trying to retain composure in a world that was retreating
into the shadow.
It was Theremon who first heard the extraneous noise. It was a vague, unorganized impression of
sound that would have gone unnoticed but for the dead silence that prevailed within the dome.
The newsman sat upright and replaced his notebook. He held his breath and listened; then, with
considerable reluctance, threaded his way between the solarscope and one of Beenay’s cameras and stood
before the window.
The silence ripped to fragments at his startled shout: ‘Sheerin!”
Work stopped! The psychologist was at his side in a moment. Aton joined him. Even Yimot 70,
high in his little lean-back seat at the eyepiece of the gigantic solarscope, paused and looked downward.
Outside, Beta was a mere smoldering splinter, taking one last desperate look at Lagash. The
eastern horizon, in the direction of the city, was lost in Darkness, and the road from Saro to the Observatory
was a dull-red line bordered on both sides by wooded tracts, the trees of which had somehow lost
individuality and merged into a continuous shadowy mass.
But it was the highway itself that held attention, for along it there surged another, and infinitely
menacing, shadowy mass.
Aton cried in a cracked voice, “The madmen from the city! They’ve come!”
“How long to totality?” demanded Sheerin.
“Fifteen minutes, but . . . but they’ll be here in five.”
“Never mind, keep the men working. We’ll hold them off. This place is built like a fortress. Aton,
keep an eye on our young Cultist just for luck. Theremon, come with me.”
Sheerin was out the door, and Theremon was at his heels. The stairs stretched below them in tight,
circular sweeps about the central shaft, fading into a dank and dreary grayness.
The first momentum of their rush had carried them fifty feet down, so that the dim, flickering
yellow from the open door of the dome had disappeared and both above and below the same dusky shadow
crushed in upon them.
Sheerin paused, and his pudgy hand clutched at his chest. His eyes bulged and his voice was a dry
cough. “I can’t . . . breathe . . . Go down . . . yourself. Close all doors -- “
Theremon took a few downward steps, then turned.
“Wait! Can you hold out a minute?” He was panting himself. The air passed in and out his lungs
like so much molasses, and there was a little germ of screeching panic in his mind at the thought of making
his way into the mysterious Darkness below by himself.
Theremon, after all, was afraid of the dark!
“Stay here,” he said. I’ll be back in a second.” He dashed upward two steps at a time, heart
pounding -- not altogether from the exertion -- tumbled into the dome and snatched a torch from its holder.
It was foul-smelling, and the smoke smarted his eyes almost blind, but he clutched that torch as if he
wanted to kiss it for joy, and its flame streamed backward as he hurtled down the stairs again.
Sheerin opened his eyes and moaned as Theremon bent over him. Theremon shook him roughly.
“All right, get a hold on yourself. We’ve got light.”
He held the torch at tiptoe height and, propping the tottering psychologist by an elbow, made his
way downward in the middle of the protecting circle of illumination.
The offices on the ground floor still possessed what light there was, and Theremon felt the horror
about him relax.
“Here,” he said brusquely, and passed the torch to Sheerin. “You can hear them outside.”
And they could. Little scraps of hoarse, wordless shouts.
But Sheerin was right; the Observatory was built like a fortress. Erected in the last century, when
the neo-Gavottian style of architecture was at its ugly height, it had been designed for stability and
durability rather than for beauty.
The windows were protected by the grillwork of inch-thick iron bars sunk deep into the concrete
sills. The walls were solid masonry that an earthquake couldn’t have touched, and the main door was a
huge oaken slab rein -- forced with iron. Theremon shot the bolts and they slid shut with a dull clang.
At the other end of the corridor, Sheerin cursed weakly. He pointed to the lock of the back door
which had been neatly jimmied into uselessness.
“That must be how Latimer got in,” he said.
“Well, don’t stand there,” cried Theremon impatiently. “Help drag up the furniture -- and keep that
torch out of my eyes. The smoke’s killing me.”
He slammed the heavy table up against the door as he spoke, and in two minutes had built a
barricade which made up for what it lacked in beauty and symmetry by the sheer inertia of its massiveness.
Somewhere, dimly, far off, they could hear the battering of naked fists upon the door; and the
screams and yells from outside had a sort of half reality.
That mob had set off from Saro City with only two things in mind: the attainment of Cultist
salvation by the destruction of the Observatory, and a maddening fear that all but paralyzed them. There
was no time to think of ground cars, or of weapons, or of leadership, or even of organization. They made
for the Observatory on foot and assaulted it with bare hands.
And now that they were there, the last flash of Beta, the last ruby-red drop of flame, flickered
feebly over a humanity that had left only stark, universal fear!
Theremon groaned, “Let’s get back to the dome!”
In the dome, only Yimot, at the solarscope, had kept his place. The rest were clustered about the cameras,
and Beenay was giving his instructions in a hoarse, strained voice.
“Get it straight, all of you. I’m snapping Beta just before totality and changing the plate. That will
leave one of you to each camera. You all know about . . . about times of exposure -- “
There was a breathless murmur of agreement.
Beenay passed a hand over his eyes. “Are the torches still burning? Never mind, I see them!” He
was leaning hard against the back of a chair. “Now remember, don’t. . . don’t try to look for good shots.
Don’t waste time trying to get t-two stars at a time in the scope field. One is enough. And . . . and if you
feel yourself going, get away from the camera.”
At the door, Sheerin whispered to Theremon, “Take me to Aton. I don’t see him.”
The newsman did not answer immediately. The vague forms of the astronomers wavered and
blurred, and the torches overhead had become only yellow splotches.
“It’s dark,” he whimpered.
Sheerin held out his hand. “Aton.” He stumbled forward. “Aton!”
Theremon stepped after and seized his arm. “Wait, I’ll take you.” Somehow he made his way
across the room. He closed his eyes against the Darkness and his mind against the chaos within it.
No one heard them or paid attention to them. Sheerin stumbled against the wall. “Aton!”
The psychologist felt shaking hands touching him, then withdrawing, a voice muttering, “Is that
you, Sheerin?”
“Aton!” He strove to breathe normally. “Don’t worry about the mob. The place will hold them
off.”
Latimer, the Cultist, rose to his feet, and his face twisted in desperation. His word was pledged,
and to break it would mean placing his soul in mortal peril. Yet that word had been forced from him and
had not been given freely. The Stars would come soon! He could not stand by and allow -- And yet his
word was pledged.
Beenay’s face was dimly flushed as it looked upward at Beta’s last ray, and Latimer, seeing him
bend over his camera, made his decision. His nails cut the flesh of his palms as he tensed himself.
He staggered crazily as he started his rush. There was nothing before him but shadows; the very
floor beneath his feet lacked substance. And then someone was upon him and he went down with clutching
fingers at his throat.
He doubled his knee and drove it hard into his assailant. “Let me up or I’ll kill you.”
Theremon cried out sharply and muttered through a blinding haze of pain. “You double-crossing
rat!”
The newsman seemed conscious of everything at once. He heard Beenay croak, “I’ve got it. At
your cameras, men!” and then there was the strange awareness that the last thread of sunlight had thinned
out and snapped.
Simultaneously he heard one last choking gasp from Beenay, and a queer little cry from Sheerin, a
hysterical giggle that cut off in a rasp -- and a sudden silence, a strange, deadly silence from outside.
And Latimer had gone limp in his loosening grasp. Theremon peered into the Cultist’s eyes and
saw the blankness of them, staring upward, mirroring the feeble yellow of the torches. He saw the bubble of
froth upon Latimer’s lips and heard the low animal whimper in Latimer’s throat.
With the slow fascination of fear, he lifted himself on one arm and turned his eyes toward the
blood-curdling blackness of the window.
Through it shone the Stars!
Not Earth’s feeble thirty-six hundred Stars visible to the eye; Lagash was in the center of a giant
cluster. Thirty thousand mighty suns shone down in a soul-searing splendor that was more frighteningly
cold in its awful indifference than the bitter wind that shivered across the cold, horribly bleak world.
Theremon staggered to his feet, his throat, constricting him to breathlessness, all the muscles of
his body writhing in an intensity of terror and sheer fear beyond bearing. He was going mad and knew it,
and somewhere deep inside a bit of sanity was screaming, struggling to fight off the hopeless flood of black
terror. It was very horrible to go mad and know that you were going mad -- to know that in a little minute
you would be here physically and yet all the real essence would be dead and drowned in the black madness.
For this was the Dark -- the Dark and the Cold and the Doom. The bright walls of the universe were
shattered and their awful black fragments were falling down to crush and squeeze and obliterate him.
He jostled someone crawling on hands and knees, but stumbled somehow over him. Hands
groping at his tortured throat, he limped toward the flame of the torches that filled all his mad vision.
“Light!” he screamed.
Aton, somewhere, was crying, whimpering horribly like a terribly frightened child. “Stars -- all the
Stars -- we didn’t know at all. We didn’t know anything. We thought six stars in a universe is something the
Stars didn’t notice is Darkness forever and ever and ever and the walls are breaking in and we didn’t know
we couldn’t know and anything -- “
Someone clawed at the torch, and it fell and snuffed out. In the instant, the awful splendor of the
indifferent Stars leaped nearer to them.
On the horizon outside the window, in the direction of Saro City, a crimson glow began growing,
strengthening in brightness, that was not the glow of a sun.
The long night had come again.
---
In 1948, I woke up one morning to read in the New York Times that Street & Smith Publications had
discontinued all its pulp magazines.
Since Astounding Science Fiction was one of the Street & Smith pulps, everything went black
before my eyes. You see, during the six-year period from 1943 to 1948 inclusive, I had sold and published
thirteen science fiction stories, every single one of them to Astounding. During that period I had labored
constantly with the feeling that I was not a writer at all, but merely a person who happened to click it off
with one particular market, and that if anything happened to Astounding or to Mr. Campbell, its editor, I
was through.
With great difficulty I finished the article and found, near the end, the utterly casual statement
(almost as an afterthought) that Astounding was the one exception. It was the only pulp magazine Street &
Smith was going to retain.
I was retrieved, but I still felt in a most fragile situation. Something might still happen to either
Astounding or to Mr. Campbell. (Nothing did! At least so far! At this moment of writing, more than twenty
years after that article, Astounding still flourishes, although it has a different publisher and has changed its
name to Analog. And the durable Mr. Campbell is still its editor.)
I sold four more stories to Astounding in 1949 and 1950 before breaking the string. Then, in 1950,
a new science fiction magazine came into sudden, vigorous life under the energetic leadership of its editor,
Horace L. Gold.
Mr. Gold searched strenuously for stories while the new magazine was being formed and he asked
me if I would submit some. I hesitated, for I was not at all sure that Mr. Gold would like them and I was
wondering whether I could bear rejections that would serve as “proof” that I was not a real writer but only a
one-editor author.
Mr. Gold was, however, persuasive. I wrote two stories and he took them both. The first story, I
felt, might have been a forced sale; he needed it for the maiden issue in a big hurry. The second story,
which appeared in the second issue, did not have to be bought, it seemed to me. I accepted the sale as
deserved and a more-than-seven-year agony of self-doubt was relieved. It is this second story which
follows.
But one thing--editors have the frequent urge to change the titles of stories. Heaven knows why!
Some editors have it worse than others and Mr. Gold had a rather acute case.
My own title for this story was “Green Patches” for reasons that will seem perfectly clear when
you read the story. For some obscure reason, Mr. Gold didn’t like it and when the story appeared, it bore the
name “Misbegotten Missionary.” Except for the alliteration, I could see no reason why this new title should
appeal to any rational person.
So I am seizing the opportunity now to change the title back to what it had been. I don’t think I’m
being unduly hasty in doing so. I have been waiting eighteen years for a chance.
First appearance--Galaxy Science Fiction, November 1950, under the title “Misbegotten
Missionary.” Copyright, 1950, by World Editions, Inc.
Green Patches
He had slipped aboard the ship! There had been dozens waiting outside the energy barrier when it
had seemed that waiting would do no good. Then the barrier had faltered for a matter of two minutes
(which showed the superiority of unified organisms over life fragments) and he was across.
None of the others had been able to move quickly enough to take advantage of the break, but that
didn’t matter. All alone, he was enough. No others were necessary.
And the thought faded out of satisfaction and into loneliness. It was a terribly unhappy and
unnatural thing to be parted from all the rest of the unified organism, to be a life fragment oneself. How
could these aliens stand being fragments?
It increased his sympathy for the aliens. Now that he experienced fragmentation himself, he could
feel, as though from a distance, the terrible isolation that made them so afraid. It was fear born of that
isolation that dictated their actions. What but the insane fear of their condition could have caused them to
blast an area, one mile in diameter, into dull-red heat before landing their ship? Even the organized life ten
feet deep in the soil had been destroyed in the blast.
He engaged reception, listening eagerly, letting the alien thought saturate him. He enjoyed the
touch of life upon his consciousness. He would have to ration that enjoyment. He must not forget himself.
But it could do no harm to listen to thoughts. Some of the fragments of life on the ship thought
quite clearly, considering that they were such primitive, incomplete creatures. Their thoughts were like tiny
bells.
Roger Oldenn said, “I feel contaminated. You know what I mean? I keep washing my hands and it
doesn’t help.”
Jerry Thorn hated dramatics and didn’t look up. They were still maneuvering in the stratosphere of
Saybrook’s Planet and he preferred to watch the panel dials. He said, “No reason to feel contaminated.
Nothing happened.”
“I hope not,” said Oldenn. “At least they had all the field men discard their spacesuits in the air
lock for complete disinfection. They had a radiation bath for all men entering from outside. I suppose
nothing happened.”
“Why be nervous, then?”
“I don’t know. I wish the barrier hadn’t broken down.”
“Who doesn’t? It was an accident.”
“I wonder.” Oldenn was vehement. “I was here when it happened. My shift, you know. There was
no reason to overload the power line. There was equipment plugged into it that had no damn business near
it. None whatsoever.”
“All right. People are stupid.”
“Not that stupid. I hung around when the Old Man was checking into the matter. None of them
had reasonable excuses. The armor-baking circuits, which were draining off two thousand watts, had been
put into the barrier line. They’d been using the second subsidiaries for a week. Why not this time? They
couldn’t give any reason.”
“Can you?”
Oldenn flushed. “No, 1 was just wondering if the men had been”--he searched for a word--
”hypnotized into it. By those things outside.”
Thorn’s eyes lifted and met those of the other levelly. “I wouldn’t repeat that to anyone else. The
barrier was down only two minutes. If anything had happened, if even a spear of grass had drifted across it
would have shown up in our bacteria cultures within half an hour, in the fruit-fly colonies in a matter of
days. Before we got back it would show up in the hamsters, the rabbits, maybe the goats. Just get it through
your head, Oldenn, that nothing happened. Nothing.”
Oldenn turned on his heel and left. In leaving, his foot came within two feet of the object in the
comer of the room. He did not see it.
He disengaged his reception centers and let the thoughts flow past him unperceived. These life
fragments were not important, in any case, since they were not fitted for the continuation of life. Even as
fragments, they were incomplete.
The other types of fragments now--they were different. He had to be careful of them. The
temptation would be great, and he must give no indication, none at all, of his existence on board ship till
they landed on their home planet.
He focused on the other parts of the ship, marveling at the diversity of life. Each item, no matter
how small, was sufficient to itself. He forced himself to contemplate this, until the unpleasantness of the
thought grated on him and he longed for the normality of home.
Most of the thoughts he received from the smaller fragments were vague and fleeting, as you
would expect. There wasn’t much to be had from them, but that meant their need for completeness was all
the greater. It was that which touched him so keenly.
There was the life fragment which squatted on its haunches and fingered the wire netting that
enclosed it. Its thoughts were clear, but limited. Chiefly, they concerned the yellow fruit a companion
fragment was eating. It wanted the fruit very deeply. Only the wire netting that separated the fragments
prevented its seizing the fruit by force.
He disengaged reception in a moment of complete revulsion. These fragments competed for food!
He tried to reach far outward for the peace and harmony of home, but it was already an immense
distance away. He could reach only into the nothingness that separated him from sanity.
He longed at the moment even for the feel of the dead soil between the barrier and the ship. He
had crawled over it last night. There had been no life upon it, but it had been the soil of home, and on the
other side of the barrier there had still been the comforting feel of the rest of organized life.
He could remember the moment he had located himself on the surface of the ship, maintaining a
desperate suction grip until the air lock opened. He had entered, moving cautiously between the outgoing
feet. There had been an inner lock and that had been passed later. Now he lay here, a life fragment himself,
inert and unnoticed.
Cautiously, he engaged reception again at the previous focus. The squatting fragment of life was
tugging furiously at the wire netting. It still wanted the other’s food, though it was the less hungry of the
two.
Larsen said, “Don’t feed the damn thing. She isn’t hungry; she’s just sore because Tillie had the
nerve to eat before she herself was crammed full. The greedy ape! I wish we were back home and I never
had to look another animal in the face again.”
He scowled at the older female chimpanzee frowningly and the chimp mouthed and chattered back
to him in full reciprocation.
Rizzo said, “Okay, okay. Why hang around here, then? Feeding time is over. Let’s get out.”
They went past the goat pens, the rabbit hutches, the hamster cages.
Larsen said bitterly, “You volunteer for an exploration voyage. You’re a hero. They send you off
with speeches--and make a zoo keeper out of you.”
“They give you double pay.”
“All right, so what? I didn’t sign up just for the money. They said at the original briefing that it
was even odds we wouldn’t come back, that we’d end up like Saybrook. I signed up because I wanted to do
something important.”
“Just a bloomin’ bloody hero,” said Rizzo.
“I’m not an animal nurse.”
Rizzo paused to lift a hamster out of the cage and stroke it. “Hey,” he said, “did you ever think that
maybe one of these hamsters has some cute little baby hamsters inside, just getting started?”
“Wise guy! They’re tested every day.”
“Sure, sure.” He muzzled the little creature, which vibrated its nose at him. “But just suppose you
came down one morning and found them there. New little hamsters looking up at you with soft, green
patches of fur where the eyes ought to be.”
“Shut up, for the love of Mike,” yelled Larsen.
“Little soft, green patches of shining fur,” said Rizzo, and put the hamster down with a sudden
loathing sensation.
He engaged reception again and varied the focus. There wasn’t a specialized life fragment at home
that didn’t have a rough counterpart on shipboard.
There were the moving runners in various shapes, the moving swimmers, and the moving fliers.
Some of the fliers were quite large, with perceptible thoughts; others were small, gauzy-winged creatures.
These last transmitted only patterns of sense perception, imperfect patterns at that, and added nothing
intelligent of their own.
There were the non-movers, which, like the non-movers at home, were green and lived on the air,
water, and soil. These were a mental blank. They knew only the dim, dim consciousness of light, moisture,
and gravity.
And each fragment, moving and non-moving, had its mockery of life.
Not yet. Not yet. . . .
He clamped down hard upon his feelings. Once before, these life fragments had come, and the rest
at home had tried to help them--too quickly. It had not worked. This time they must wait.
If only these fragments did not discover him.
They had not, so far. They had not noticed him lying in the corner of the pilot room. No one had
bent down to pick up and discard him. Earlier, it had meant he could not move. Someone might have turned
and stared at the stiff wormlike thing, not quite six inches long. First stare, then shout, and then it would all
be over.
But now, perhaps, he had waited long enough. The takeoff was long past. The controls were
locked; the pilot room was empty.
It did not take him long to find the chink in the armor leading to the recess where some of the
wiring was. They were dead wires.
The front end of his body was a rasp that cut in two a wire of just the right diameter. Then, six
inches away, he cut it in two again. He pushed the snipped-off section of the wire ahead of him packing it
away neatly and invisibly into a corner of recess. Its outer covering was a brown elastic material and its
core was gleaming, ruddy metal. He himself could not reproduce the core, of course, but that was not
necessary. It was enough that the pellicle that covered him had been carefully bred to resemble a wire’s
surface.
He returned and grasped the cut sections of the wire before and behind. He tightened against them
as his little suction disks came into play. Not even a seam showed.
They could not find him now. They could look right at him and see only a continuous stretch of
wire.
Unless they looked very closely indeed and noted that, in a certain spot on this wire, there were
two tiny patches of soft and shining green fur.
“It is remarkable,” said Dr. Weiss, “that little green hairs can do so much.”
Captain Loring poured the brandy carefully. In a sense, this was a celebration. They would be
ready for the jump through hyper-space in two hours, and after that, two days would see them back on
Earth.
“You are convinced, then, the green fur is the sense organ?” he asked.
“It is,” said Weiss. Brandy made him come out in splotches, but he was aware of the need of
celebration--quite aware. “The experiments were conducted under difficulties, but they were quite
significant.”
The captain smiled stiffly. “ ‘Under difficulties’ is one way of phrasing it. I would never have
taken the chances you did to run them.”
“Nonsense. We’re all heroes aboard this ship, all volunteers, all great men with trumpet, fife, and
fanfarade. You took the chance of coming here.”
“You were the first to go outside the barrier.”
“No particular risk involved,” Weiss said. “I burned the ground before me as I went, to say nothing
of the portable barrier that surrounded me. Nonsense, Captain. Let’s all take our medals when we come
back; let’s take them without attempt at gradation. Besides, I’m a male.”
“But you’re filled with bacteria to here.” The captain’s hand made a quick, cutting gesture three
inches above his head. “Which makes you as vulnerable as a female would be.”
They paused for drinking purposes.
“Refill?” asked the captain.
“No, thanks. I’ve exceeded my quota already.”
“Then one last for the spaceroad.” He lifted his glass in the general direction of Saybrook’s Planet,
no longer visible, its sun only a bright star in the visiplate. “To the little green hairs that gave Saybrook his
first lead.”
Weiss nodded. “A lucky thing. We’ll quarantine the planet, of course.”
The captain said, “That doesn’t seem drastic enough. Someone might always land by accident
someday and not have Saybrook’s insight, or his guts. Suppose he did not blow up his ship, as Saybrook
did. Suppose he got back to some inhabited place.”
The captain was somber. “Do you suppose they might ever develop interstellar travel on their
own?”
“I doubt it. No proof, of course. It’s just that they have such a completely different orientation.
Their entire organization of life has made tools unnecessary. As far as we know, even a stone ax doesn’t
exist on the planet.”
“I hope you’re right. Oh, and, Weiss, would you spend some time with Drake?”
“The Galactic Press fellow?”
“Yes. Once we get back, the story of Saybrook’s Planet will be released for the public and I don’t
think it would be wise to oversensationalize it. I’ve asked Drake to let you consult with him on the story.
You’re a biologist and enough of an authority to carry weight with him. Would you oblige?”
“A pleasure.”
The captain closed his eyes wearily and shook his head.
“Headache, Captain?”
“No. Just thinking of poor Saybrook.”
He was weary of the ship. Awhile back there had been a queer, momentary sensation, as though he
had been turned inside out. It was alarming and he had searched the minds of the keen-thinkers for an
explanation. Apparently the ship had leaped across vast stretches of empty space by cutting across
something they knew as “hyper-space.” The keen-thinkers were ingenious.
But--he was weary of the ship. It was such a futile phenomenon. These life fragments were skillful
in their constructions, yet it was only a measure of their unhappiness, after all. They strove to find in the
control of inanimate matter what they could not find in themselves. In their unconscious yearning for
completeness, they built machines and scoured space, seeking, seeking . . .
These creatures, he knew, could never, in the very nature of things, find that for which they were
seeking. At least not until such time as he gave it to them. He quivered a little at the thought.
Completeness!
These fragments had no concept of it, even. “Completeness” was a poor word.
In their ignorance they would even fight it. There had been the ship that had come before. The first
ship had contained many of the keen-thinking fragments. There had been two varieties, life producers and
the sterile ones. (How different this second ship was. The keen-thinkers were all sterile, while the other
fragments, the fuzzy-thinkers and the no-thinkers, were all producers of life. It was strange.)
How gladly that first ship had been welcomed by all the planet! He could remember the first
intense shock at the realization that the visitors were fragments and not complete. The shock had give way
to pity, and the pity to action. It was not certain how they would fit into the community, but there had been
no hesitation. All life was sacred and somehow room would have been made for them--for all of them, from
the large keen-thinkers to the little multipliers in the darkness.
But there had been a miscalculation. They had not correctly analyzed the course of the fragments’
ways of thinking. The keen-thinkers became aware of what had been done and resented it. They were
frightened, of course; they did not understand.
They had developed the barrier first, and then, later, had destroyed themselves, exploding their
ships to atoms.
Poor, foolish fragments.
This time, at least, it would be different. They would be saved, despite themselves.
John Drake would not have admitted it in so many words, but he was very proud of his skill on the
photo-typer. He had a travel-kit model, which was a six-by-eight, featureless dark plastic slab, with
cylindrical bulges on either end to hold the roll of thin paper. It fitted into a brown leather case, equipped
with a beltlike contraption that held it closely about the waist and at one hip. The whole thing weighed less
than a pound.
Drake could operate it with either hand. His fingers would flick quickly and easily, placing their
light pressure at exact spots on the blank surface, and, soundlessly, words would be written.
He looked thoughtfully at the beginning of his story, then up at Dr. Weiss. “What do you think,
Doc?”
“It starts well.”
Drake nodded. “I thought I might as well start with Saybrook himself. They haven’t released his
story back home yet. I wish I could have seen Saybrook’s original report. How did he ever get it through,
by the way?”
“As near as I could tell, he spent one last night sending it through the sub-ether. When he was
finished, he shorted the motors, and converted the entire ship into a thin cloud of vapor a millionth of a
second later. The crew and himself along with it.”
“What a man! You were in this from the beginning, Doc?”
“Not from the beginning,” corrected Weiss gently. “Only since the receipt of Saybrook’s report.”
He could not help thinking back. He had read that report, realizing even then how wonderful the
planet must have seemed when Saybrook’s colonizing expedition first reached it. It was practically a
duplicate of Earth, with an abounding plant life and a purely vegetarian animal life.
There had been only the little patches of green fur (how often had he used that phrase in his
speaking and thinking!) which seemed strange. No living individual on the planet had eyes. Instead, there
was this fur. Even the plants, each blade or leaf or blossom, possessed the two patches of richer green.
Then Saybrook had noticed, startled and bewildered, that there was no conflict for food on the
planet. All plants grew pulpy appendages which were eaten by the animals. These were regrown in a matter
of hours. No other parts of the plants were touched. It was as though the plants fed the animals as part of
the order of nature. And the plants themselves did not grow in overpowering profusion. They might almost
have been cultivated, they were spread across the available soil so discriminately.
How much time, Weiss wondered, had Saybrook had to observe the strange law and order on the
planet?--the fact that insects kept their numbers reasonable, though no birds ate them; that the rodent-like
things did not swarm, though no carnivores existed to keep them in check.
And then there had come the incident of the white rats.
That prodded Weiss. He said, “Oh, one correction, Drake. Hamsters were not the first animals
involved. It was the white rats.”
“White rats,” said Drake, making the correction in his notes.
“Every colonizing ship,” said Weiss, “takes a group of white rats for the purpose of testing any
alien foods. Rats, of course, are very similar to human beings from a nutritional viewpoint. Naturally, only
female white rats are taken.”
Naturally. If only one sex was present, there was no danger of unchecked multiplication in case the
planet proved favorable. Remember the rabbits in Australia.
“Incidentally, why not use males?” asked Drake.
“Females are hardier,” said Weiss, “which is lucky, since that gave the situation away. It turned out
suddenly that all the rats were bearing young.”
“Right. Now that’s where I’m up to, so here’s my chance to get some things straight. For my own
information, Doc, how did Saybrook find out they were in a family way?”
“Accidentally, of course. In the course of nutritional investigations, rats are dissected for evidence
of internal damage. Their condition was bound to be discovered. A few more were dissected; same results.
Eventually, all that lived gave birth to young--with no male rats aboard!”
“And the point is that all the young were born with little green patches of fur instead of eyes.”
“That is correct. Saybrook said so and we corroborate him. After the rats, the pet cat of one of the
children was obviously affected. When it finally
kittened, the kittens were not born with closed eyes but with little patches of green fur. There was
no tomcat aboard.
“Eventually Saybrook had the women tested. He didn’t tell them what for. He didn’t want to
frighten them. Every single one of them was in the early stages of pregnancy, leaving out of consideration
those few who had been pregnant at the time of embarkation. Saybrook never waited for any child to be
born, of course. He knew they would have no eyes, only shining patches of green fur.
“He even prepared bacterial cultures (Saybrook was a thorough man) and found each bacillus to
show microscopic green spots.”
Drake was eager. “That goes way beyond our briefing--or, at least, the briefing I got. But granted
that life on Saybrook’s Planet is organized into a unified whole, how is it done?”
“How? How are your cells organized into a unified whole? Take an individual cell out of your
body, even a brain cell, and what is it by itself? Nothing. A little blob of protoplasm with no more capacity
for anything human than an amoeba. Less capacity, in fact, since it couldn’t live by itself. But put the cells
together and you have something that could invent a spaceship or write a symphony.”
“I get the idea,” said Drake.
Weiss went on, “All life on Saybrook’s Planet is a single organism. In a sense, all life on Earth is
too, but it’s a fighting dependence, a dog-eat-dog dependence. The bacteria fix nitrogen; the plants fix
carbon; animals eat plants and each other; bacterial decay hits everything. It comes full circle. Each grabs
as much as it can, and is, in turn, grabbed.
“On Saybrook’s Planet, each organism has its place, as each cell in our body does. Bacteria and
plants produce food, on the excess of which animals feed, providing in turn carbon dioxide and nitrogenous
wastes. Nothing is produced more or less than is needed. The scheme of life is intelligently altered to suit
the local environment. No group of life forms multiplies more or less than is needed, just as the cells in our
body stop multiplying when there are enough of them for a given purpose. When they don’t stop multi-
plying, we call it cancer. And that’s what life on Earth really is, the kind of organic organization we have,
compared to that on Saybrook’s Planet. One big cancer. Every species, every individual doing its best to
thrive at the expense of every other species and individual.”
“You sound as if you approve of Saybrook’s Planet, Doc.”
“I do, in a way. It makes sense out of the business of living. I can see their viewpoint toward us.
Suppose one of the cells of your body could be conscious of the efficiency of the human body as compared
with that of the cell itself, and could realize that this was only the result of the union of many cells into a
higher whole. And then suppose it became conscious of the existence of free-living cells, with bare life and
nothing more. It might feel a very strong desire to drag the poor thing into an organization. It might feel
sorry for it, feel perhaps a sort of missionary spirit. The things on Saybrook’s Planet--or the thing; one
should use the singular--feels just that, perhaps.”
“And went ahead by bringing about virgin births, eh, Doc? I’ve got to go easy on that angle of it.
Post-office regulations, you know.”
“There’s nothing ribald about it, Drake. For centuries we’ve been able to make the eggs of sea
urchins, bees, frogs, et cetera develop without the intervention of male fertilization. The touch of a needle
was sometimes enough, or just immersion in the proper salt solution. The thing on Saybrook’s Planet can
cause fertilization by the controlled use of radiant energy. That’s why an appropriate energy barrier stops it;
interference, you see, or static.
“They can do more than stimulate the division and development of an unfertilized egg. They can
impress their own characteristics upon its nucleo-proteins, so that the young are born with the little patches
of green fur, which serve as the planet’s sense organ and means of communication. The young, in other
words, are not individuals, but become part of the thing on Saybrook’s Planet. The thing on the planet, not
at all incidentally, can impregnate any species--plant, animal, or microscopic.”
“Potent stuff,” muttered Drake.
“Totipotent,” Dr. Weiss said sharply. “Universally potent. Any fragment of it is totipotent. Given
time, a single bacterium from Saybrook’s Planet can convert all of Earth into a single organism! We’ve got
the experimental proof of that.”
Drake said unexpectedly, “You know, I think I’m a millionaire, Doc. Can you keep a secret?”
Weiss nodded, puzzled.
“I’ve got a souvenir from Saybrook’s Planet,” Drake told him, grinning. “It’s only a pebble, but
after the publicity the planet will get, combined with the fact that it’s quarantined from here on in, the
pebble will be all any human being will ever see of it. How much do you suppose I could sell the thing
for?”
Weiss stared. “A pebble?” He snatched at the object shown him, a hard, gray ovoid. “You
shouldn’t have done that, Drake. It was strictly against regulations.”
“I know. That’s why I asked if you could keep a secret. If you could give me a signed note of
authentication--What’s the matter, Doc?”
Instead of answering, Weiss could only chatter and point. Drake ran over and stared down at the
pebble. It was the same as before--
Except that the light was catching it at an angle, and it showed up two little green spots. Look very
closely; they were patches of green hairs.
He was disturbed. There was a definite air of danger within the ship. There was the suspicion of
his presence aboard. How could that be? He had done nothing yet. Had another fragment of home come
aboard and been less cautious? That would be impossible without his knowledge, and though he probed the
ship intensely, he found nothing.
And then the suspicion diminished, but it was not quite dead. One of the keen-thinkers still
wondered, and was treading close to the truth.
How long before the landing? Would an entire world of life fragments be deprived of
completeness? He clung closer to the severed ends of the wire he had been specially bred to imitate, afraid
of detection, fearful for his altruistic mission.
Dr. Weiss had locked himself in his own room. They were already within the solar system, and in
three hours they would be landing. He had to think. He had three hours in which to decide.
Drake’s devilish “pebble” had been part of the organized life on Saybrook’s Planet, of course, but
it was dead. It was dead when he had first seen it, and if it hadn’t been, it was certainly dead after they fed
it into the hyper-atomic motor and converted it into a blast of pure heat. And the bacterial cultures still
showed normal when Weiss anxiously checked.
That was not what bothered Weiss now.
Drake had picked up the “pebble” during the last hours of the stay on Saybrook’s Planet--after the
barrier breakdown. What if the breakdown had been the result of a slow, relentless mental pressure on the
part of the thing on the planet? What if parts of its being waited to invade as the barrier dropped? If the
“pebble” had not been fast enough and had moved only after the barrier was reestablished, it would have
been killed. It would have lain there for Drake to see and pick up.
It was a “pebble,” not a natural life form. But did that mean it was not some kind of life form? It
might have been a deliberate production of the planet’s single organism--a creature deliberately designed to
look like a pebble, harmless-seeming, unsuspicious. Camouflage, in other words--a shrewd and
frighteningly successful camouflage.
Had any other camouflaged creature succeeded in crossing the barrier before it was re-established-
-with a suitable shape filched from the minds of the humans aboard ship by the mind-reading organism of
the planet? Would it have the casual appearance of a paperweight? Of an ornamental brass-head nail in the
captain’s old-fashioned chair? And how would they locate it? Could they search every part of the ship for
the telltale green patches-- even down to individual microbes?
And why camouflage? Did it intend to remain undetected for a time? Why? So that it might wait
for the landing on Earth?
An infection after landing could not be cured by blowing up a ship. The bacteria of Earth, the
molds, yeasts, and protozoa, would go first. Within a year the non-human young would be arriving by the
uncountable billions.
Weiss closed his eyes and told himself it might not be such a bad thing. There would be no more
disease, since no bacterium would multiply at the expense of its host, but instead would be satisfied with its
fair share of what was available. There would be no more overpopulation; the hordes of mankind would
decline to adjust themselves to the food supply. There would be no more wars, no crime, no greed.
But there would be no more individuality, either.
Humanity would find security by becoming a cog in a biological machine. A man would be
brother to a germ, or to a liver cell.
He stood up. He would have a talk with Captain Loring. They would send their report and blow up
the ship, just as Saybrook had done.
He sat down again. Saybrook had had proof, while he had only the conjectures of a terrorized
mind, rattled by the sight of two green spots on a pebble. Could he kill the two hundred men on board ship
because of a feeble suspicion?
He had to think!
He was straining. Why did he have to wait? If he could only welcome those who were aboard now.
Now!
Yet a cooler, more reasoning part of himself told him that he could not. The little multipliers in the
darkness would betray their new status in fifteen minutes, and the keen-thinkers had them under continual
observation. Even one mile from the surface of their planet would be too soon, since they might still
destroy themselves and their ship out in space.
Better to wait for the main air locks to open, for the planetary air to swirl in with millions of the
little multipliers. Better to greet each one of them into the brotherhood of unified life and let them swirl out
again to spread the message.
Then it would be done! Another world organized, complete!
He waited. There was the dull throbbing of the engines working mightily to control the slow
dropping of the ship; the shudder of contact with planetary surface, then--
He let the jubilation of the keen-thinkers sweep into reception, and his own jubilant thoughts
answered them. Soon they would be able to receive as well as himself. Perhaps not these particular
fragments, but the fragments that would grow out of those which were fitted for the continuation of life.
The main air locks were about to be opened--
And all thought ceased.
Jerry Thorn thought, Damn it, something’s wrong now.
He said to Captain Loring, “Sorry. There seems to be a power breakdown. The locks won’t open.”
“Are you sure, Thorn? The lights are on.”
“Yes, sir. We’re investigating it now.”
He tore away and joined Roger Oldenn at the air-lock wiring box. “What’s wrong?”
“Give me a chance, will you?” Oldenn’s hands were busy. Then he said, “For the love of Pete,
there’s a six-inch break in the twenty-amp lead.”
“What? That can’t be!”
Oldenn held up the broken wires with their clean, sharp, sawn-through ends.
Dr. Weiss joined them. He looked haggard and there was the smell of brandy on his breath.
He said shakily, “What’s the matter?”
They told him. At the bottom of the compartment, in one corner, was the missing section.
Weiss bent over. There was a black fragment on the floor of the compartment. He touched it with
his finger and it smeared, leaving a sooty smudge on his finger tip. He rubbed it off absently.
There might have been something taking the place of the missing section of wire. Something that
had been alive and only looked like wire, yet something that would heat, die, and carbonize in a tiny
fraction of a second once the electrical circuit which controlled the air lock had been closed.
He said, “How are the bacteria?”
A crew member went to check, returned and said, “All normal, Doc.”
The wires had meanwhile been spliced, the locks opened, and Dr. Weiss stepped out into the
anarchic world of life that was Earth.
“Anarchy,” he said, laughing a little wildly. “And it will stay that way.”